PREFACE.
Rousseau says, nobody reads prefaces. I suspect there is more truth in the assertion than one is quite willing to admit; for a preface is a species of literary luxury, where an author, like a lover, is privileged to be egotistical; and really it is very pleasant to dwell upon our own thoughts, hopes, fears, and feelings. But all this is laying a very "flattering unction to our souls;" for who really enters into our thoughts, cares for our hopes, allows for our fears, or sympathises with our feelings? The gratitude and the modesty of an author are equally thrown away. Our readers only open our pages for amusement: if they find it, well and good—if not, our most eloquent pleading will not make them read on. The term "courteous reader" is as much
